IT’S A PULLOVER—NOT A CARDIGAN

sweater

More times than I like to admit, I have been out driving some car and been forced to pull-over.

I don’t mean like cops are chasing me or the feds have my name on some black and blue list, but I have been forced  to pull off the road for personal reasons.    Often (not the time to follow here)no authorities are involved,  unless you count the Lord…

About a century ago I passed a stupid test and was awarded a drivers’ license in the potato state. That would not be Maine—but Idaho.

Gotta love those spuds although my dad told me most of the prime bakers are shipped out of state and we Idahoans get the dregs.  Oh well.  I diverse.  And wouldn’t you know I’d decide to wed a stud named Baker.   There are no coincidences, and I prefer Kilmer—more unique and classy.

So I turn 14 and in Idaho during those prehistoric times a kid could drive –only during daylight hours—never after dark.  Go figure.

The thinking was farmers needed their kids to drive tractors after school so why not make it legit?

Are you following my drift?  Speaking of which, we could also drive a snow plow in times of knead.

There I am, or was—cruising home from the “library” in Mom’s white VW beetle, when I sense the light changing, and I don’t mean the stop signal.  It IS the cops flashing me and they want me to, you guessed it, PULL OVER!  So of course, a disciplined parochial school student, I maneuver my bug into the first driveway I spot.

And in my scared stupor I realize it is my father’s  house.

“Yikes!”

(I was hitting 42 in a 35 m.p.h  zone.)

I told myself this was not a big deal, but it was because in Nampa, Idaho in those daze every traffic violation, marriage, divorce, domestic altercation, little thing was published in the IDAHO FREE PRESS on page 2.  And my Dad loved perusing this rag each night after he returned from whatever he did all day.

I had to think fast, which comes naturally to me, thank my not- so -lucky stars.  I fetched the paper before our frisky dog Stubby could,  and carefully cut out Page  Two (2)—Dad’s favorite- but  I planned to give him an extra strong  bourbon and water  when he got home,  with hopes he would skip from page 1 to 3 without a third thought, or even a thought at all…

My plan failed.  Dad tried to act mad but I saw him stifle a grin as he told me I could not take the car out again for an entire week.

And I was not allowed to use scissors for a full year.  Or so he said…

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One Comment on “IT’S A PULLOVER—NOT A CARDIGAN”

  1. mikegent@aol.com says:

    nan (or did Debbie write this one ????).

    i’m eating my turkey sandwich…..and feeling grateful that u sent me lunch time entertainment….altho its hard to laugh and swallow at the same time.

    be grateful that u now live in VA now where u can buy decent spuds……..and married women are allowed to keep their maiden names….. Nan can dump Baker I guess, but what about poor JP ?

    xo


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